The Drug That Makes You Ill
by kittenguts
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, you're 16 years old and you've been cutting yourself for two and a half years. TW: attempted suicide, depression, self harm. Multi-chapter, but short. Rated M for language, and some sexual content in the future.
1. Chapter 1

******! If you're triggered by: Self-harm, attempts at suicide or anything depression-related, please don't read ! :(**

**So, this is a quick fic really. I needed to get the idea on paper and it's gonna be only a few chapters. X_x  
****Also if you can't tell I really like to torture Dave in my fanfics. Heh. Enjoy anywho.**

**~E**

* * *

Your name is Dave Strider, you're 16 years old and you've been cutting yourself for two and a half years. You've done a really good job hiding it from everyone, too. Bro doesn't know, neither does John. Not Rose, not Jade. Nobody knows, and that's the way you want it to stay. Everyone wonders why you always wear sweatshirts or long sleeve shirts, even when it gets really warm. You don't know how to reply. You just say they're comfortable. Now that you think about it, you've been suicidal for a long time now. You don't think twice about your life, or how your choices may affect everyone else. On a rare occasion, you also burn yourself. But that's when you have cigarettes. Which isn't often.

Every day is a cycle for you. You wake up, consider killing yourself, walk into the bathroom, pick up the razor placed conveniently under a bottle, and take a shower. You contemplate how to kill yourself. You give yourself a few new cuts and let the water wash away the blood. After your shower, you brush your teeth, and consider OD'ing on that bottle of pills sitting in the medicine cabinet. You don't touch the bottle. You walk into the kitchen and eat breakfast, before you're out the door for school. The ritual once you get home is usually less of the same. You do what you feel like doing. Bro is hardly ever home, so you don't worry about him coming home finding you cutting yourself.

Today, you decide to hop on your laptop and chat with your friend John. This year you have no classes with him, so you talk over Pesterchum.

**- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:30 -**

**TG: hey john**  
**EB: hi dave!**  
**TG: how are you**  
**EB: i'm alright, how are you?**  
**TG: same shit different day**  
**TG: so shitty**  
**EB: oh dave, i wish you'd cheer up soon. We should hang out sometime and talk about your mood. :(**  
**TG: dude that sounds**  
**TG: so**  
**TG: gay**  
**EB: so? maybe it'll help you.**

You stare at your screen.

**TG: yeah ok**  
**TG: nice chatting with you john**  
**EB: wait, dave, c'mon dude.**  
**TG: bye.**

**- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:52 -**

**EB: damn it. :(**

You sit on your bed and fiddle with your sleeve. You consider the pills in the medicine cabinet. They are very close to where you're at now. You could if you wanted. But you won't. Instead, you'll leave more disgusting marks on your skin. You go outside and light up a cigarette, take a drag before rolling up your sleeve. The only reason you'll do this outside is because Bro will know if the house smells like cigarettes. You press it to your skin and hiss through clenched teeth.

"_Fuck_," you strain. You pull the cigarette off your arm and throw it on the ground, stepping on it before going back inside. You grab the razor from the bathroom counter and you sit on the toilet, pulling down your pants. You decide your thigh is the most reasonable place for this today. You are running out of space of flesh on the underside of your arms. You make 3 cuts along your leg, and release a breath you weren't aware you were holding.

You look at the blood as it surfaces and feel disgusted. You grab wadded up tissue and dab away at the cuts and stick a rather large band-aid over them to prevent staining of your jeans. You pull up your pants and throw the bloodied tissue into the toilet, flushing it away. You watch it disappear and you honestly wish your problems would go away that easily. After staring at an empty toilet bowl for what seems like forever, you finally leave the bathroom after cleaning and returning the razor blade back in its spot. You walk into your room and lay on your bed, feeling really crappy as usual.


	2. Chapter 2

You woke up today feeling the same as you always did. You decided you'd try to make things a little different today though. You pull on clothes, deciding to fuck taking a shower today, and you jump into your ratty pair of converse. You have other shoes, of course, Bro always made sure of that. You just liked these better. You gave away some of your nice shoes to your "friends," and when Bro noticed they were missing, he was quick on the draw to replace them. Even though it's getting hot in Texas, you throw a coat over your arm and walk out of your bedroom, hoping that Bro was nowhere in sight. When you confirmed this, you walked into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. You pulled out the razor blade and stared at it, then looked blankly to your arms. Yeah. You'd do it again. You push the blade against your skin, deep, making sure it cut and bled. You watched as the blood pooled in the sink. You make shallower cuts, but several of them, so they drip blood slowly into the sink. After a while you feel sick and you can smell the blood in the bathroom. You bandage up your arm with an ace bandage you keep hiding under some shit in a drawer. You pull out a bottle of bleach hiding under the sink (and what a surprise that is, that Bro has _any_ cleaning supplies in his house) and you dump it down the drain while you run the water. You spray some cologne on yourself and in the room to make it smell less like blood and bleach, and more like some shitty, cheap cologne. You pull on your jacket and walk nonchalantly out of the bathroom.

You pour yourself a bowl of lucky charms, no milk, and pick out all the marshmallows in the bowl. You take your damn time doing this, and before you know it, you realise you have to leave. You shove your phone in your pocket, throw your backpack on and walk out the front door. When you're walking to your bus stop you feel your phone vibrate. So you pick it up and look at a text.

"_Stupid __fucking __faggot__._" it reads. You don't recognise the number, and this isn't the first time they have done this. Your phone vibrates again.

"_Kill __yourself __you __fucking __gay __fag__._"

Oh.

_Oh__._

Another vibration.

"_Fuck __any __innocent __boys __lately__, __David__?_"

You want to throw your phone on the ground. Make it stop. How did they get your number again? This is the 4th time you've changed it this month. Bro was stern with the phone company that you were being harassed and the numbers needed to be changed. It wasn't normal in policy that they'd change it so many times in a month.

You honestly feel like crying. You block the number for now. You feel another vibration, but you know it's not from a text. Pesterchum blinks on your screen and you tap it.

**- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 7:25 -**

**EB: dave!**  
**EB: dave are you there?**  
**EB: :(**  
**TG: oops**  
**TG: hey john**  
**EB: how are you? are you doing alright?**  
**TG: yeah mom im doing fine**  
**EB: dave, im serious.**  
**TG: john its no big deal im fine**  
**EB: are you sure?**  
**TG: jesus christ**

**- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 7:41 -**

**EB: god damn it dave!**

You waited at the bus stop until the old piece of junk rolled up. You got on the bus and sat in your usual seat, in the way back of the bus. You put on your headphones to block out the rest of the world, just until you got to school.

It didn't seem like long until you pulled into school. Everyone shuffled off the bus. You sauntered off the bus, last as always. You walk into the school building, your backpack slung on one shoulder. You do your best to blend in with the rest of your school, but holy shit, you're so fucking different. You might as well be carrying a neon sign saying "_Beat __me __up__, __I__'__m __a __fag__!_" You pass your locker. Carrying all of your stuff today won't be a big deal. Nah. You won't admit it out loud, but you really don't want to get beat up this morning. Not yet. Maybe later

You do your best to blend naturally into the crowd. You walk into your first period class, take your seat, and let the teacher talk. You can hear the jocks in the back of the room talking smack. In the back of your mind, you hope they aren't talking about you.

It's lunch period. You sit where you usually do, and John joins you, sitting across from you. John's other friends join the two of you at the table. John looks at you in a concerned way, but doesn't push the issue. He takes a bite of his sandwich.

"How are you, Dave?" He asks. You flinch at the question.

"I'm fine," you respond, after a pause. His eyebrows turn up and looks at you. You cringe under his intense look. You turn away.

"You're going to eat today, too, right?" He asks. You shrug, staring at your hands on the table. You don't really care. You eat when you get home, when you don't feel sick from daily events. You grab the end of your sweatshirt sleeves.

"Aren't you hot as fuck in that thing?" The short one next to John, asks. Karkat, you think his name was. Interesting name. You shake your head.

"What is it, National interrogate Dave Strider Day?" You ask, sarcastically. You stand up and throw your backpack on. "Whatever. I'm out." You say, leaving the lunch room.

John looks at Karkat, worriedly. Karkat just scoffs.

You walked outside and sat on the steps. You didn't care who saw at this point, as you pulled out a cigarette and lit it, putting it to your lips. You take a long drag before exhaling. You stare at your feet on the pavement. Maybe today will be the day you kill yourself. Maybe. You take another drag, and move your sweatshirt out of the way as you burn yourself on your shoulder. You bite your lip, and pull it away from your flesh. You cover it again and flick the cigarette down the rest of the steps. You could kill for your razor right now. You hear the bell ring so you walk back inside

School's out. You see John trying to get to you, as you jump down the steps. You look over your shoulder and end up running into a big, hard figure. You look back forward and take one step back. This guy is literally 3 times your size.

"Watch yourself, you little shit," he growls. You shrug. Another guy comes by him and he's laughing.

"Jordan, that's the county's local faggot! David Strider, isn't it?" he teases. You clench your teeth, and ball your hands into fists. You have to control yourself. Keep your composure.

Jordan, the one who you ran into, suddenly has a big grin on his face. "Oh, so he's the little pansy fag I've heard so much about?" He cracks his knuckles. You inhale sharply through your nose. John is standing at the top of the steps dumbfounded. It doesn't take long before he turns tail, and you hope to god he's getting you some help. "Let's teach him how we folk here in Houston County like our little gay boys," He snorted, grabbing you by the collar of your sweatshirt. You let your body fall limp and he punches you in the face, letting you go at the same time. You fall on your side onto the ground and grab your head, just in case. Jordan and the other boys are now kicking and punching you, before you hear yelling and they all disappear. You feel so weak, and you move your arms out of the way to look and see your History teacher extending his arms to help you up. John runs down to join him.

"Dear god, Dave, are you okay?" John pleads, and you don't know how to respond. You cough, and wipe away blood seeping from your bottom lip.

"Just _peachy_," you joke. Your history teacher, Mr. Hudson, insists that he gets you help. You wave your arm. "Don't worry about it. My brother knows a lot of medical shit, he can help me." You stand up straight, feeling your ribs ache and scream at you in pain. You grab your backpack off the ground and take a quick glance at your broken shades on the ground. You walk down the road. John runs to you and walks next to you.

"Dave, jesus, at least let me drive you home," he insists and stops in front of you, gently grabbing your shoulders. He stares at your face, and you have nothing to hide your eyes. You look away. His eyes are too fucking blue, too fucking concerned. You run your hand through your hair.

"Fine," you reply, and John walks you back to the school's parking lot. You sit silently in the passenger seat, and John tries not to pry. You stare out the window. John pulls into the parking lot of the apartment buildings. He parks and gets out of the car as you do. As you try to escape, he pulls you into a hug.

"I'm sorry if this hurts. I just think you really need one," he mumbles into your ear. It hurts really fucking bad, but you hug him back, and you hold that hug for a while. John pulls you two apart and smiles weakly. "Please message me on Pesterchum if you want to talk about anything, okay?" He gives you a pat on the shoulder.

You scream at yourself because, holy shit, you want to tell John everything. You wish you could tell him everything. But you can't. You can't tell him. He'd never understand. You wish that he would.

Hours later, you sign onto pesterchum, and there he is. You still hurt like a bitch, but you _need this_. You need to talk to John. You want him to save you, and maybe that's something he can do.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: thank you for all the kind reviews! it means a lot Q_Q and the favourites and alerts, man, i can't handle you guys. it truly means a lot because i try to put my all into this fic lmao...  
**

**ps there is a little physical touchin in this chapter. you know. the stuff that ain't quite safe for work. :-3 just lettin y'alls know.**

**thanks for reading, you guys are all flawless x1million!**

**~E**

* * *

**-turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 19:43 -**

**TG: hey john  
EB: dave! are you feeling any better? :(  
TG: not really my fucking ribs hurt  
TG: but ill live  
EB: i hope your brother can get to you soon, because that was a serious beating you took, dave.  
TG: dont remind me  
EB: are you going to go to school tomorrow?  
TG: probably not  
TG: because fuck that shit  
TG: im passing my classes anyway it doesnt fucking matter  
EB: :(  
TG: im sick of having to watch my ass you know  
TG: it fucking sucks because everywhere i turn somebody hates me  
TG: judging me silently with their fucking criticizing eyes  
TG: man im sick of it  
EB: dave i wish i could help you, but i'm just scrawny shit haha...  
TG: whoa man dont feel guilty its not your fault  
EB: but i cant help but feel a little guilty! i mean my best bro is getting beat up, and verbally assaulted. i dont see how that's not something to be worried about.  
TG: i deserve it though  
TG: hahahaha  
EB: what? no you don't!  
EB: god damn it dave!  
EB: why won't you just realize your worth? because you mean a lot to me, and all of your other friends too.**  
**EB: ...  
EB: i just want you to be happy again.  
TG: yeah i do too  
TG: john  
TG: since i tell you everything you have to promise me this  
EB: okay!  
TG: dont mention this to anybody  
EB: dave?  
TG: i cant do it haha wow ill tell you tomorrow  
TG: just come over to my house after school  
EB: okay...  
TG: well im gonna get myself something to eat and then probably crash  
TG: ill see you tomorrow  
EB: bye dave!  
EB: see you tomorrow.**

**-turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 20:24 -**

You lean back in your chair with no plans of eating. You nearly told your best bro about your crush on him you developed back when you both were 13 years old. You suppressed all your feelings, denied them all you could, until this year. You missed him a lot, because you both knew each other since you were young. You only figured yourself out when you turned 14. You kept to yourself more after that, because you didn't want anyone to know that you liked the same sex, and that was around when you started to "harm" yourself. You never considered it self-harm since it didn't seem harmful to you. It didn't hurt. It quit hurting after a while, and it felt just like a normal touch did. It wasn't foreign by the 3rd time you put the blade to your flesh. You just didn't care. The only thing you cared about was keeping yourself out of actual harms way, that nobody found your cuts, and John. You always cared about John though.

You throw off your coat you've kept on all day, and unbandage yourself. The new cuts you left on your forearms are red and puffy, but the blood dried. You run your fingers over them, and the scars from previous wounds, and smile to yourself. Today wasn't so bad. But you dread tomorrow.

You woke up late (around 1 pm), took a shower, without contemplating suicide once. You are too preoccupied thinking about how you're going to talk to John. What you're going to tell him. He will be here soon, so you don't have time to think about killing yourself. You'll save that for afterwards, when the embarrassment settles in. You sit at the dining room table, and fumble with the note Bro left in bright pink, sparkling gel pen. You squint at it because it's so bright on the white paper it hurts your eyes like hell. So he'll be back on Sunday. Today is Friday. No big deal, you've spent time by yourself. You pocket the note and decide it's best if John didn't see this, because he'd take your need for medical attention to new heights. You slink into your room and get on your computer, opening your browser. Out of boredom, and to waste some time, you unzip your jeans and decide to rub one out before John gets here.

It's now 2:30 and he'll be here in 15 minutes. You make sure your room is clean and that nothing that'll expose yourself is in the open. You close your browser, but clearing the history first. For obvious reasons. You hear a knock on the door as you're kicking clothes under your bed. You stand up, and feel your heart starting to race. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He's here too soon, too soon, you think, but your legs are taking you to the door. You swing it open all too eagerly, and there he stands in all his bright-blue-eyed, bucktooth glory. You just wanna kiss him but you know better than that.

"Hey John," you mumble, and move out of the way for him to come into your home. He smiles at you and walks in, closing the door for you. You watch him kick off his shoes and he walks straight to your room. You follow suit, and shut that door too. You don't know why, but you just feel that it's safer that way.

"So, what did you want to tell me?" John asks, sitting on your bed. You feel a breath catch in your throat and you have your hands glued to your sides. You pull on your jacket and you sit next to him. He looks at you funny as you're putting the coat on. "Dave, it's 95 out."

"I know," you shoot back, quickly. You pick at a loose string on the bed and wish you rebandaged your arms. You move so you're sitting across from each other, able to look eye-to-eye. You can't seem to make eye contact with him, and you look at your lap. John's laughing at you now.

"Dude, c'mon, it's no big deal! It can't be. It's not like you're pregnant or anything," He says, grinning. You smile slightly.

"You don't know that."

John gets a good laugh, and you just half-smile. "But no, really, please tell me!" He says, leaning forward. He grabs your hand and your heart starts beating a little bit faster.

"John," You start. You stare him straight in his eyes. Instead of saying anything, you just launch yourself forward and kiss him, and he seems shocked at first, but then he's not stiff against you anymore, and he's soft. Oh god, he's actually kissing you back. You push him onto his back and continue to kiss on top of your bed. His kisses are awkward, like first kisses, and you feel you're being too aggressive on top of him. You sit him back up, still kissing, and you grab his face with one hand, pulling away. You press your foreheads together and your face heats up. You lean back and sit on your legs.

"... I am... So sorry. John, oh my god, I'm so sorry," You apologise pathetically and John just smiles at you.

"It's ok, Dave, was that what you wanted to tell me?" He asks. You contemplate telling him about your cuts. But you decide it's best to save that for another time. Another day.

"Yeah, I guess so," you say, and you lean forward again, and John reciprocates. You exchange some more sloppy kisses on top of your bed, before you're running your hands down his sides. His arms are around your neck, and his hands are in your hair. Your fingers play with the hem of his jeans and he stiffens against you, nervously. You don't stop though, your hand going down to his crotch. You grab it, and grind the palm of your hand onto his jeans, as he moans into your mouth ever so slightly.

He pulls away from you, and it's getting way too fucking hot in here for your jacket. You're sweating, and so is John.

"Take your fucking jacket off," he demands as he's lifting it over your head. You don't even care, you just let him. You feel his eyes on you and you open your eyes after the coat has been lifted over your head. "Dave... Dave, holy shit." He sounds breathless. You cringe and you just want to die. "Dave, who the fuck did this to you? Did you do this?" He is demanding answers, and you turn your head away in shame. "You did, didn't you? Oh my god, Dave, why? Why didn't you tell me? Dave, you need help." He is standing now, and you cower beneath him.

"I don't," you say, barely above a whisper.

"What was that?"

"I don't need your _**FUCKING **__**HELP**_, John, I've been just fine on my own. This _is_ my help," You shout, and you run out of the room and up the stairs out of your apartment, leaving John in your wake.

* * *

**A/N: i promise this won't turn out to be some mushy-gushy fic.**

**And Dave, quit acting like a baby. John only wants to help you. :T**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: hey i haven't updated in like a month.**

**… here's this LOL**

* * *

You are standing on your roof, listening to the cars below driving by on the highway. It's almost calming, but you are sobbing up here, your wall finally broken. You drop to your knees and sit there on the cement roof, and it's hot. Your tears are hot on your face, your skin is hot, and the cement is hot. You hear the thumping of footsteps up the stairs but you don't move. At this point, you couldn't care less. John sits down next to your shaking body and he wraps both arms around you. He doesn't say anything, and you don't move.

After a long time of quiet, just the cars buzzing below the two of you, John speaks up.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and you say nothing. You nod slightly, and he says something you can't understand but he's lifting you up and leading you back downstairs. You just follow obediently and dig your palms into your eyes. He sits you down on your bed and wraps your blanket back around you. "Hey, look at me, please?" He asks. You look up at him and sniffle.

"I'm sorry for freaking out, okay? But I just want you to be okay! You understand that, right?" John frowns a little, his teeth coming over his lip as he does so. You write that down as one of the couple of things you love about him before returning your gaze to his bright blue eyes. You see worry in them, for sure, and you're almost sure that you're giving him some sort of weak look. He smiles a little and runs his hand through your hair. "I'll see you tomorrow, ok? I should get going." He coughs into his fist and then gives you a big hug. You put your arms weakly around him.

He walks out the door and you watch him go. "Bye John," you say quietly as you shut the door. You turn around and march into the bathroom, where you stare at your reflection in the mirror for 5 minutes before you grab the razor on the counter. John just told you he wants you to be okay. You can be okay, this is how you're okay. You _ARE_ okay. You press the blade to your arm, and cut three times. The blood comes quickly, and you cover it with a rag sitting on the counter. You peel off your pants and cut across your thighs. You watch the blood bubble to the surface and wipe it with toilet paper. You sit there in your boxers and t-shirt, hugging your knees. You're smearing blood all over your legs and at this point you don't care. You just sit there, because you need some fucking time to think.

Before you know it, you've spent an hour and a half on the floor. You clean up any bloody mess there might be and pull your pants back on. You walk into your room and luckily for you, the front door opens and slams closed. Bro is home but you have nothing to worry about. He won't bother you about anything, he never does. You just sit in front of you computer and aimlessly browse the internet because you're bored. You consider updating your comic but you don't. Before you know it, you're watching twink porn and you've got your hand around your half-hard dick, and you're doing this mindlessly because you just don't know at this point. You watch the smaller looking one, with light brown hair, taking the bigger dude's dick in his mouth, sucking and stroking it, taking it completely into his mouth like it was something to eat. You squeeze your cock and stroke rather hard, as the little twink takes the huge prick out of his mouth and continues to stroke, and you make sure you keep in time with him, and it doesn't take long before you cum all over your hand. You look at it in disgust and wipe it on a discarded t-shirt on your floor. You turn off your computer. You sit on your bed, near the window, and light a cigarette. You take a long drag and stare down at the ground, listening to your neighbor's children screaming and playing. You remember when you were that young, and you were still happy. But you grew up, and here you are today. You take a long ass drag and flick the ashes off onto the ground. You crush the cigarette against the side of the building and toss the butt to the ground as well. You just lean on the windowsill and breathe in. Though you wish the air was less polluted by exhaust, at least it doesn't smell like semen and disappointment. You look at the clock on the wall and suggest you knock out your homework and then go to sleep.

ooo

The next morning, you walk into the bathroom. You assess the damage to your body from yesterday and you decide that you're staying home today. You just don't care at this point. You take a shower and get dressed. You remember your glasses are busted, so you stuff some money from the dish at the end of the kitchen counter and you head outside to catch a bus downtown. You decide to text John at least to tell him you won't be coming to school. You pull your phone out of your pocket and shoot him a text message. You put it back into your pocket and sit at the bus stop. It's about 100 degrees today, but your arms can't be seen. You're wearing a thin long sleeve shirt, and it really does hug your body. It shows how fucking thin you are, but nobody here knows you enough to pick at that. This city is big. You don't have to wait long and the bus stops and you get on. You avoid eye contact with everyone because you usually are able to hide your freakishly bright red eyes, but now without your shades, you're powerless. So you close your eyes and put your hands behind your head.

You open one eye as you start hearing people getting up. You look out the window and see you're at the downtown transit station. You didn't want to go this far but oh well. You hop off the bus and decide you need to find someplace to go to buy a cheap ass pair of shades. Just for now, you need at least something. You walk for a while down the sidewalk before a far away Walmart sign catches your eye. Good enough, you think, and cross the road. You walk in the store, easily find a pair of shades, and pay for them. You chew off the tag and you put them on, before you walk to some empty end of the parking lot. You sit on the curb and sigh, laying back into the grass just behind the hot black asphalt. It's still early, and you aren't sure you want to go home yet. You aren't really hungry, but you have not much else to do. You just decide to loiter and lay in the soft grass for a while, listening to the cars drive by.

ooo

You look like an ass, because you fell asleep and you're not sure how long you were out. You rub your head and yawn. You decide you may as well go home now, checking your phone. You have a ton of text messages, a lot from numbers you don't know. You don't care to read them because you know exactly what kind of shit will be in them. You delete them right away, and then get to a few texts from John.

**"Dave! Are you okay? :("**

**"Hey. I just hope things are alright, sorry I sound like a mom, hehe."**

You smile and reply.

**"everythings fine i just wasnt ready to get beat up again im still fucking sore im like a little flower you know john"**

You walk to another bus stop which seems to be closer and wait for another bus and take it home.

Once you make it back to the apartment, you open the door quietly just in case Bro is sleeping. You put your extra change back into the dish on the counter and saunter to your room where you light up another cigarette and sulk.


End file.
